


Technically, I bought you.

by HintofMayhem



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Bisexual Peter Parker, Depression, Heavy Angst, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Identity Issues, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Pansexual Wade Wilson, Peter Parker Gets Stabbed, Peter Parker Has Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Please Don't Hate Me, Please Kill Me, Protective Wade Wilson, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Tags Are Hard, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wade Wilson is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22068043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HintofMayhem/pseuds/HintofMayhem
Summary: "Technically...", he said with a wolfish grin, "I bought you."- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -When Peter Parker gets ambushed and chased by some wannabe villain in civil, he didn't expect to get charged with his offences. Between having to face a jail sentence and getting his identity revealed, he's got only one choice left. He needs someone to buy him free. But of all people, had it to be the ruthless mercenary Deadpool?-ON HIATUS: 2 Months remaining[UPDATES: Every week on Friday.]
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 46
Kudos: 105





	1. The one where Peter gets bashed

**Author's Note:**

> [Disclaimer: Even thought you can choose whatever version of Peter and Wade you want, Peter is 22 and Wade 29 in here, so no underage.]  
> \- - - - - - -  
> Morning folks! This being my first fanfic on here, I hope you enjoy it! :D  
> Also thanks to my kind beta [Art_lover_Lina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Art_lover_Lina/pseuds/Art_lover_Lina) for helping me out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Disclaimer: Even thought you can choose whatever version of Peter and Wade you want, Peter is 22 and Wade 29 in here, so no underage.]  
> \- - - - - - -  
> Welcome folks! This being my first fanfic on here, I hope you enjoy it! :D  
> Also thanks to my kind beta  Art_Lover_Lina  for helping me out!

As Peter Parker stepped out of the subway, he had absolutely no clue what was expecting him.

He still didn’t as he walked the short way down the streets to his apartment, headphones in and his thin red jacket tightly wrapped around his body in the cold october evening. Completely exhausted from a busy day in the lab at Stark Industries, he hastily made his way through the crowd, daydreaming of his warm bed and the big cup of coffee he would definitely get once he arrived.

Only as his spidersense started to tingle lightly in the back of his head he abruptly stopped right in the middle of the street, people cursing and walking around him, his spine suddenly completely straight. A cold shiver hit him and his eyes widened in realization.

How _the fuck_ did he not notice he was followed all the way back home?

He took a deep breath and forced himself to focus more on his senses, but damn, did he feel tired. It was nothing more than a distant tingle at the very edge of his perception. He frowned.

Was his spidersense broken..?

He tried to act it off and started to feel a few of his pockets, sighing loudly in relief. No need to let the unknown pursuer know that he was aware of him.

There were not many people or rather _creatures_ that didn’t set off his spidersense.

Fishing his phone out of the back pocket, he tried to act like a normal, exhausted college student but inside, his thoughts were racing. 

He had his suit with him, buried deep within the depths of his backpack, underneath what felt like a ton of textbooks. There was no way he could disappear unnoticed in an alley and put it on; this was definitely not a regular mugger and would have stopped him before he could even loosen the collar of his button-up. He silently cursed these unhandy, tight work clothes.

But, on the other hand, getting chased was nothing new happening to Spider-Man.

_Spider-Man._

_This_ was happening to _Peter._ Which meant that they probably knew his identity.

This was exactly what made him step in the abandoned, dead end alley anyway. If a villain figured out who he was and came to fight him in civil, better not exposed to the public,

was what he was convinced of before an incredibly fast figure, nothing more than a dark, black flash, rushed past him and his spidersense uttered a by far delayed scream, but it was too late; he got grabbed by his shoulder and smashed into the brick wall, remembering in the very last moment to bring his arms up and protect his head, but in vain.

If he only had stayed in public. They have just been waiting for him to go to a less crowded area and snatch him alone.

Now he was seeing stars and blindly reached out for something to hold onto while he desperately tried to regain his vision. He didn’t get enough rest to do so though, as a hand grabbed him by the neck and lifted him up, so abruptly, his face almost collided with the masked one of his attacker. His breath hitched.

Grinning up at him through the fabric of his mask was a man fully dressed in a dark grey suit, having a glowing yellow visor he was staring at him trough and various protection plates as well as a pouch in the same color. The most fascinating thing of his costume was not the ridiculous color combination, though.

It was the material the suit was made of.

It was no spandex, that for sure, and it was not like anything Peter had seen in his entire life before, either. And he was a goddamn scientist.

It had completely no texture and looked smoother than anything in the world. Yet, it was almost like it was softly glowing and-

His thought flow was abruptly put to an end as the man lifted Peter even higher, preparing to smash him against something again. In his panic he franticly tried to grab the man but his hands wrapped around nothing.

They simply _slipped off._

But instead of smashing him into another wall, he kept him lifted up above his head like he weighed nothing and continued to pierce him with his intense gaze. Every attempt of Peter to get a grip on him was pointless.

There he was, the amazing Spider-Man, defeated by a wannabe villain he has never seen before with a suit slippier than the surface of a fucking frying pan.

God, he loved his life.

“Spider-Man”, the rouge finally exclaimed, his grin stretching the fabric of the mask impossibly wider. The grip around his neck tightened and he was once again reminded of how helpless he was.

“How the hell did you-”

“-did I find you?” he laughed. “Oh, that was easy. Your little know-it-all ass couldn’t stay quiet but had to show off, huh? After a little bit of snooping around it was almost too easy to see a connection between the little nerd who took my place in the lab and Spider-Man’s technology”, he leaned in closer, “Am I right, _Parker?_ ” He nearly spit out the words, his voice dripping with bitterness.

“I have been following you for days-”

This time, he banged his head against the lamppost at the back of the dead end before continuing, “-and you still didn’t notice shit!”

And another time, for good measure, before he pulled him close again, breath heated and coming in angry, shallow puffs. He definitely had an anger problem.

The next time he was about to crush him into the ground, Peter was prepared.

“You took everything from me!”, fryingpan-man roared.

“I don’t even know who you are!”, Peter shot back desperately with a strangled noise.

This time, he used the moment of his blind anger and when he hit the wall again, he curled his back, pulling his torso forward and lifted his knees up to his chest in a quick, fluid motion. For a short moment he was thankful for his rather decent abs allowing him to do so before he used the force of his gained momentum. The soles of his used winter boots found the face of the man and he kicked him hard enough against his jaw as he stretched his body all the way, he could _feel_ bones creak with every single fiber of his being.

Due to the slippery surface the contact wasn’t much, but using all of his spider strength, it was more than enough. Too late he realized the consequences of his miscalculation. The deafening sound, enhanced by his super hearing, sent a horrifying shiver down his spine.

Ah. That’s where these traitors finally come crawling back, _right,_ spidersenses?

Breaking free from the iron grip as the man took his hands from his throat to clench them around his ruined jaw instead, the young student noticed hushed voices from the exit of the alleyway. A crowd of people was gathering, terrified about the scenario they were just witnessing. He could see one passerby holding a phone and talking into it in a hushed voice to not attract the attention of the villain.

 _Fuck._ This was the last thing he needed. Now he surely couldn’t use his powers. Not in front of all the-

Suddenly an idea struck him and Peter turned his head around to look for the rouge, but he was gone. 

_When- how-?_

This alley was a dead end. He couldn’t just have-

Instinctively Peter looked up, just in time to see a blurry silhouette crashing down on him with frighteningly high speed. He reacted with delay when his instincts finally kicked back in and did a roll to the side, but he wasn’t fast enough; they collided hard and rolled over the dirty ground together, a giant pile of tangled limbs. Peter could hear fabric tear and the weight of the backpack on his shoulders disappeared with a _thump_ as they came to an abrupt halt, hitting a garbage container and completely denting cold the metal.

The audience screamed.

And so did he.

When they smashed into the container, Peter was the one to hit it first, absorbing most of the impact with his own body. In fact, it left a pretty precise dent of his shape in the metal. Except for the shoulder part, of course. The reinforced handle of the bin was right at its height and it certainly didn’t give away - his left shoulder blade, on the other hand, _definitely_ did.

The immense force of the impact and the sharp pain in his shoulder left him desperately gasping for breath, his lungs aching for air that wouldn’t come, not when his diaphragm was clenched and tense with the burning pain roaring through his whole body like a firework of agony. And then there was also the crushing weight of the taller man right on him, holding him down and shouting words that his oxygen-deprived brain could not comprehend.

Clenching his teeth, he blinked away the burning tears that were pooling at the corners of his eyes, the edges of his vision darkening. He barely noticed how his breath turned more and more shallow. The last thing he was able to make out were moving silhouettes blocking the light coming from the entrance of the alley, when finally the weight was taken from him and air streamed back in, filling his trembling lungs. His vision went white for a short moment before he had the chance to collect himself.

Distantly, he was hearing screams. 

Against all his instincts, he heaved himself up from where he was laying on his back, only to have his shoulder crease over and let him fall onto his belly, his legs a tangled mess. He could taste copper in his mouth. But when he finally managed to lift his gaze and look towards the mouth of the alley, the taste got quickly replaced by acrid bile.

Bodies. 

Motionless, slumped bodies, sprawled around him. An awful lot of them.

And the villain was nowhere to be found.

Gathering all his remaining power he forced himself to stand, not further bothering with where the frying pan dude had gone but whether the people he had knocked out in their attempt to help the poor student were still breathing. Half through all the people and his body protesting with every movement, he slowly registered the distant buzzing of his spidersense. And with that, all his other senses promptly kicked back in.

The deafening sound of nearing sirens. Heavy footsteps, at least two pairs of them. A jolt of adrenaline rushed through him as he saw the reflections of the golden police badges, catching the light of the settling sun and blending him for only a short moment. That was when hell broke loose.

“Don’t move, hands in the air!”

Then guns were pointed at him, policemen were yelling at him to back away from the unconscious people and he found himself stumbling backwards, unable to tear his gaze apart from his own hands.

His bloody hands. Just as bloody as the body of the woman he had been dripping on just a moment before. It was his own, but the policemen couldn’t possibly know that.

When he finally lifted his gaze to look at the cops, something else caught his look.

Higher up on the brickwall, on a windowsill hidden in the shadows, was crouching a figure in a dark suit. The settling sun had caught in his visor, only for the split of a second, but it was enough. Slowly, the loud voices of the police pushed into the background until all he could hear was silence and his own, racing heartbeat.

Peter locked eyes with the man on the windowsill. He was holding his breath.

He knew his identity. He dislocated his shoulder and knocked out half a dozen of people and let him stand there as the perpetrator. And he was still after him, just waiting for his next opportunity.

In a split of a second the young hero made a decision. No matter what the legal consequences of this misunderstanding were, this villain _knew his identity_ and was by far more dangerous than these cops. He had to lure him away from the citizens as quickly as possible. Then he could think about how he was going to fight someone who was impossible to get a grip on and incredibly fast in addition.

Ignoring the rising yells of the cops, he sprinted towards the dead end and jumped up to clamp onto the lamppost with his hands for a second, ignoring the jolts of pain shooting through his shoulder, before launching himself into the air and over the high brick wall, into the narrow maze of New York’s rooftops.

If not to give away his spider powers, he could at least explain this with nightly parkour sessions. Provided, he wouldn’t get imprisoned right away. Or wouldn’t get killed by the mysterious assailant, in the first place.

But for now he had to keep running for his dear life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I didn't make up the villain, it's just a very old one of Spider-Man. Any Idea?  
> Leave Kudos and comments if you enjoyed!
> 
> Visit my Instagram [ here. ](https://www.instagram.com/hintof.mayhem/)
> 
> **[Posted January 1st 2020]**


	2. The one where Peter (kinda) strikes back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter hates feeling like prey so he decides to change that. Or least, there was an attempt. Right? Hey, you tried, buddy!

In one second he was backed up in an alley by several cops surrounded by unconscious bodies, in the next he was sprinting and jumping over the rooftops of New York City in civilian clothes, followed close by a wannabe villain who hadn’t only dislocated his shoulder and made him look like the culprit to the police, but was also probably keen on killing him.

Good old Parker-Luck™, that was.

After launching himself over the brickwall he nearly collapsed on the roof. But he knew didn’t have much time before the miscreant picked up on him again. So he squeezed his way through the narrow framework of a small water tower, hoping the villain would have problems to follow him with his tall frame compared to his rather small one.

He was relieved when he picked up the whirring sound of a body moving at incredible speed faltering for a few moments and took the time to look around, planning his escape route.

He wasn’t that far away from the train station he just exited about twenty minutes ago on his way back home. On one hand, it would be stupid to head in that direction because the area was open and he’d be an easy target. On the other hand, there were little to no buildings, except for the warehouses and rails, which would definitely be the better option since the man proved that he clearly didn’t care about civilians getting involved.

Or hurt. _Or killed._

Risking one last look back towards the crowded city of New York, he decided he would have to change into his suit later,

when he got pulled out of his thoughts by his senses screeching at him and he instinctively reacted, letting himself fall on the ground, a second before the villain’s fist pierced the air where his head had just been.

He had made his way through the narrow framework and now the young student was trapped once again, his only escape towards the open area of the rails.

So he wasted no time and jumped up high from his crouch, gripping the metal rod of the tower and swinging himself towards and over the abyss of the building before he could even think about it. Which turned out to be a mistake because first, he felt a dump tug at his shoulder which he, thanks to the adrenaline rushing through his blood, couldn’t feel _yet,_ and second, he noticed in his free fall, that he couldn’t use his webs right now without attracting unnecessary attention. So he grit his teeth and smoothened his landing by rolling over his shoulder and continued to sprint over the flat roof of the few depositories located at the edge of the city, dodging smaller obstacles. He could hear the whirring of the rogue’s suit, having little to no air resistance, picking up speed and coming closer and closer. Once he reached the very end of the last warehouse he crashed into him, throwing them both over the edge to smash inevitably onto the mossy concrete ten feet underneath them.

With a thud Peter hit the ground and was gasping for air for a second time in less than an hour. This couldn’t go on like this. He was clearly superior to him in this area. He needed to get out of here. He needed to change into his suit. He needed-

Realization hit him like a baseball bat to the face.

_His suit._

He had lost his backpack in the alleyway. He was completely exposed and defenseless.

The last bit of air escaped his parted lips as he stared into the light of the settling sun, the sky above him. Until his view got once again obstructed.

The man was pinning him down, digging his fingers into the soft skin of his waist hard enough to bruise while the other hand was buried in his hair, roughly pulling Peter up so he was facing him. The unpleasant, heated breath of the rogue was hitting his face as he spoke. His jaw hung aside in a weird angle.

“You little bastard! Not that strong anymore, huh, _Spidey?”_

He was slurring the words. Spit from his dislocated jaw was slowly trickling down on him and with every word he tightened his grasp until Peter had to grit his teeth. His waist would definitely have some serious bruises, additionally to the ones he already had. 

“At least I don’t have the powers of a frying pan”, he spit out.

He didn’t knew where he took the strength to speak from. His entire throat was sore and filled with the taste of bitter copper. He had never felt so helpless, captured under the weight of a man he physically couldn’t even touch because of the damn suit.

That comment only earned him another rough tug on his hair and he actually whimpered.

God, how pathetic. After a rough day in the lab and 48 hours without sleep was definitely not the best time to fight an enemy.

“Frying pan?!”, the man screeched. “I would have won! I would have gotten the job! _I_ would have finally gotten the recognition I deserve, but _no!_ ” With every word he came closer to the boy’s face until he had no choice but to breath in the unpleasant smell of the other man.

“I lost my job because of you! You and your goddamn _plastic eating robot!_ ”

Something in the man’s words woke something in him. Some distant memories. That voice… he remembered it. With a flash, he finally knew. His eyes widened in realization.

“Jalome...?!”

His voice was nothing more than a weak croak. He felt something pooling in his throat while speaking, causing him to cough in a wet sound. That was not good. But the man just laughed, satisfied with how Spider-Man struggled underneath him.

“Damn right, that’s me. I was in the lead for years in that lab, until you came and suddenly everyone just had eyes for you. I invented a non-stick coating that could revolutionize the fucking world, but no! I got fired and that just because of you. And now you will finally _pay for this, Parker._ ”

A reflection in the dark caught Peters eye, cold and silvern. Before he could react, he felt a jolt of sharp pain in his already damaged shoulder. He let out a muffled scream, pressing his own hands against his mouth to shush the pathetic sounds escaping him.

Jalome slowly began to twist the knife which was buried deep in his shoulder. He could almost feel his vicious smile on his skin. Peter couldn’t hold it back anymore. He screamed and kicked wildly with all his remaining force, but nothing helped, his weight didn’t even ease for a second. Tears burned hot in the corners of his eyes, blurring his view. Except for the small peak of red just over the horizon it was already completely dark and no soul was around the warehouse area to hear his screams.

“Oh no, don’t worry, no one will hear or even find you here, Pete. I’m also not interested in revealing your identity. All I am interested in is making you die a slow, painful death to make you pay for ruining my career and to have the title that I, the great Slyde, have killed Spider-Man!”

His words were loud and followed by resounding laughter, confident of his own victory. Peter shut his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. He could feel his blood flowing, his pulse pounding in his ears and his brain failed to form any coherent thoughts.

He was laying on the mossy concrete surrounded by abandoned warehouse buildings. The sun had set and nobody was around. He was losing more blood than was good for him, he could already feel dark shadows lurking at the edges of his vision, longing for him. His shoulder felt numb. His whole body trembling in the effort to stay conscious, he opened his eyes and focused on Slyde. The man had taken off his mask while Peter was trying to collect himself. Now he was devilishly grinning down at him, greasy hair and bloodshot eyes, his silhouette barely to make out in the dark.

“Any last words, dipshit?”

Peter narrowed his view and looked at him with determination in the eyes. He clenched his jaw.

“Go fuck yourself, Jalome.”

With that he arched his back and freed his arms, stretching them out, his wrists pointing at the side of a nearby warehouse. He pressed his middle and ring fingers down at the insides of his hands and with a quick flick of his wrists, he tilted them in just the right angle to shoot out webs that hit the wall of the building. Slyde was completely taken aback that the younger man still had any power left at all and the fact that he shot webs out of his _naked wrists_ that he didn’t react when they both were sent flying through the air, the student pinning him to the wall high above the ground with his body.

The only thing Jalome was now holding on was Peter’s waist and the knife buried in his shoulder, which the young hero definitely didn’t like. He knew he had only seconds left before the quick rush of adrenaline that hit him would fade, so he wasted no time to repel his legs from the wall where they caught Slyde between him and swung himself into the air, holding onto the hand that still clutched to the knife like a vice and set both his feet onto the man’s chest. Then he straightened his body all the way, ripping the knife out of him and flung himself backwards, away from the wall and shot out another web to swing himself on the next rooftop.

His breath was going shallow and heavy. His vision was blurry. He could barely feel the left half of his body and he felt a pull in his stomach. He wasn’t going to make it long. The rogue was still in his free fall when Peter instinctively shot out a web to catch him, but just like everything else, it just slipped off, unable to find hold on the coating of his suit.

He had to watch with horror how his body hit the dirty concrete and lay motionless on the ground. But he had no time to worry about the villain now.

From here, everything happened in a blurred rush.

Knowing that the villain would be after him again soon, his body switched to autopilot and he used the rest of his remaining power to swing towards the vague direction of his apartment on the other side of New York, protected only by the darkness enveloping him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some already have guessed, yes, the villain is [Slyde!](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slyde) I spent almost an hour scrolling through Spider-Man's enemy list, trying to find a small and forgotten one I could try to revive.  
> 
> 
> Visit my Instagram [ here. ](https://www.instagram.com/hintof.mayhem/)
> 
> **[Posted January 3rd 2020]**


	3. As in a haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is tired and desperate. And desperate people do desperate things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is rather short, but the next chapter will be muuuch longer, I promise!

The first thing he felt was  _ pain. _

Sharp, stinging pain followed by an alarming numbness in his left bodyhalf. He was completely disoriented, only able to focus on the burning sensation to keep himself from sliding into that enveloping, peaceful darkness calling for him.

Everything would be so much easier if only he let go. The shadows lurking at the edges of his vision, longing for him, were so promising. No pain. Just calmness. Silence. Peace.

But, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew; If he’d give in to these tempting promises now, he’d never find his way out ever again. So he kept fighting.

When his eyes finally started to focus on his surroundings, the only thing he could see at first was deep blue, almost black. With time he could make out square shaped, dark silhouettes he identified as buildings. Slowly, he also registered tiny, blurred lights popping up which he recognized as stars and citylights. Good. He was somewhere high up on a rooftop. Safe. For now.

The next thing he registered was that he was laying on his back and as a cold breeze swept over the roof, he could feel it over major parts of his partially exposed body, paired with a cold, sticky feeling. The wind whistled deafening around his ears.

The wound on his shoulder was finally closing up, he thought. Or he had already bled out everything there was to bleed out.

The blood had ran cold.

Slowly he shifted himself into a sitting position, coughing hoarse in a wet sound as the questionable, thick liquid that had gathered in the back of his throat by lying in this position also shifted with his movements.

_ How long have I been laying here…? _

Carefully, he turned his head to look around and get a first proper view at his surroundings. At first, he couldn’t recognize anything at all. He wasn’t even sure if he was still in New York.

Who knew where his spidersenses, when on autopilot and on the edge of a panic attack, could have gotten him? The sore feeling in his aching and definitely overused spinnerets only confirmed his fear.

The more relieved he was when he finally spotted the familiar outline of the fire escape followed by the AC-unit protruding next to it from the roof.

He had instinctively swung back home. Or at least, as far as he could before he collapsed here to get claimed by his inevitable death already. But not today. Peter Parker was a fighter and together with his superpowers he was able to escape it. One more time.

He wondered for how long this would last.

Gripping onto the railing which fenced the roof he stood up on shaky legs to make his way down to his flat. Luckily it was located on the very last storey so he had a short walk from the never locked rooftop door through the stairwell, straight to his wide open front door.

He took a moment and lingered on the threshold to catch his rattling breath. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew,  _ something was off. _ But the urge to throw himself in his bed and fall asleep immediately, to heal and just  _ not endure this numbing pain anymore  _ outweighed it by far.

That was when his body was met with a crushing weight before he met the floor.

His head banged against the doorframe and he was turned roughly onto his belly. He could feel his shoulder snap as his arms were torn back in a quick motion and his skin stretch and almost rip. It took him a second to realize that the strangled noise he was hearing came from his own throat. A muffled, pathetic scream.

“Don’t move and stay sti- ugh!”

Out of reflex he kicked out with his legs and felt them hitting something soft. He groaned when the body of the attacker hit the shelf in his corridor with the immense momentum he gained from Peter’s thrust and it got kicked over, only to land on his own thighs. Its contents spilled onto the floor and layed forgotten in the dark corridor. The sharp corner of the wooden furniture bored into his soft flesh. Then he heard the unmistakable click of a gun getting unsecured and his guts tightened.

“Last warning, Parker! Get on the fucking ground and hands behind your head!”

It took everything from him to process the words with his clouded mind, but eventually he managed to raise his shaky arms and let them fall onto the back of his head. His heart was racing in his chest, trying to pump blood that was not there but sticking to the asphalt somewhere in the city. It was pounding against his ribs as if it wanted to escape at any moment.

The police was in his apartment. They had found him.

_ They found me. _

Peter could no longer think clearly. He just wanted to cry. Collapse onto the ground and let the whole tension and all the memories of today's events fade away, slip from his shoulders, from his mind. He just wanted everything to  _ stop. _

He didn’t resist when they roughly lifted his arms only for them to be met with the stinging cold of metal and the significant sound of handcuffs snapping, taking his freedom and with that, all of his remaining hope. Neither did he resist when they dragged him all the way down from the eight storey and threw him on the backseat of the police car where he just curled up into a trembling little ball. He didn’t even try to hide the traitorous sobs escaping him, revealing just how much of a miserable failure he was.

Spider-Man was getting arrested by the cops in his own apartment and he didn’t have the will or the strength to defend himself. He was wasted. He was  _ lost. _

And it was no one there to come and save him this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, poor Petey. What terrible things did Slyde do that now get charged on him?  
> I hope you enjoyed and leave some feedback if ya want!  
> Next update as always on Friday.
> 
> Visit my Instagram [ here. ](https://www.instagram.com/hintof.mayhem/)
> 
> **[Posted January 10th 2020]**


	4. Your Baby Boy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the brink of despair, Peter does something he is going to regret _very soon._  
>  And we finally get to see (hear?) everyone's favorite merc with a mouth! Yay, us!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for Posting two days late but I've been celebrating the chinese new year! Anyways, the promised longer chapter! Enjoy!
> 
> >:)

“One person life-threateningly injured, four beaten into unconsciousness and another one with minor injuries.”

The whole table vibrated as the officer grumpily set down his cup of coffee and sighed loudly. A clock was ticking impatiently in the background accompanied by a long yawn of the older man, only reminding the two occupants of the small office of how late it was. Or early, depending on what kind of person you were.

The officer sent him a sceptical glance over the edge of his papers before continuing to read out the files in front of him.

“Peter Benjamin Parker, twenty-two years old, born in Queens. Top marks at college, currently working as an intern at Stark Industries.”

Setting down the papers on his desk, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, until the heavy wood groaned under his weight. The room was filled with anticipation.

“How come?”

_Ah, I don’t know, man. Some wannabe villain chased me and made me look like the culprit, beat me up and triggered a panic attack from me so I ended up kicking a cop and got arrested._

But of course he couldn’t say that. Then he would have to explain what some villain would want from an innocent little student. His eyes darted to the contents of his backpack which were spread out on the desk in front of him. After losing it in the alleyway it was an easy game for the NYPD to find him. The officer followed his gaze.

“A cosplayer, huh?” The student didn’t miss his scornful tone.

Peter nervously ran his tongue over his chapped, dry lips. His Spider-Suit was illuminated by the cold, flickering light of the neon lamps. He sheepishly lowered his gaze, unable to find an answer. The officer acknowledged this as a ‘Yes’ with a short nod.

“So, that’s it? Nothing from you?” The man heaved himself ponderously out of the wooden chair and stepped over to him. Peter just continued to stare into emptiness.

“Then welcome in custody. I suggest you to enjoy your stay, because you won’t see your apartment any time soon.”

This triggered something in him. His pulse raced as he jerkily lifted his head to look at the officer directly.

“I—Sorry, what?”

The man sighed. Slowly, the forced smile disappeared from his face until tiredness was all that was left.

“Listen, kid. You hurt a number of people, almost _killed_ someone, were on the run and attacked a colleague. What did you _think_ would happen? That we would just let you walk out like that?” The man couldn’t help but let out a huffed laugh.

“Nice try. No, we’re talking about at least a year here—although I sure hope for two. Now, if you don’t have anything more to say regarding the case then _shut up,_ for fuck’s sake, and just face it.”

Peter’s mind was afire. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears as the policeman gestured him to follow him out of the overstuffed office.

 _Jail._ He would go to Jail.

And he had no way to get out of it without revealing who he was.

Vaguely, he perceived how his breathing got faster and the light of the neon lamps got blurred in front of his eyes. There must be some way out. There was no way he could go to jail. He couldn’t. This wasn’t fair. This—

His arising panic attack got interrupted and he was brought back to reality by a heavy hand settling on his back. He looked up, only to meet the expectant gaze of the officer.

“Now come on, son. We all could use some sleep right now.”

On shaky legs he got urged out of the room, unable to oppose from the bigger man’s irritated grip. His throat was dry. In his despair he tried to coax out some words from his lips, but they stayed quiet. Even his own body turned against him.

So this was how his life would end, huh?

Not only would Mr. Stark immediately fire him after this came out, but Jalome Beacher would also reveal his identity to the world. And even if he stood true to his word, that he wasn’t interested in revealing him, how easy would it be to see the connection between the well-behaved nerd suddenly facing a jail sentence and Spider-Man—just as suddenly—disappearing? Especially to someone like Tony fucking Stark.

Only a few hours ago, on the rooftop, he had asked himself for how long his lucky streak would go on, when he thought he finally made it. Now he had the answer.

He was doomed. Fucking finally.

As all hope had almost left him and he was ready to surrender to his fate, a sudden thought struck him and let him stop right on the middle of the threshold.

“W-Wait!”, he burst out breathlessly.

Maybe he didn’t have to go to Jail. Maybe he didn’t even have to get his identity revealed to the world, not even to the police. The only one to find out his identity would be Tony Stark, if he only agreed to bailing him out.

He shivered by this thought. He could never ask something like that from anyone, not even if they were a hecking billionaire. He wasn’t sure of how much it would cost, but he had the gnawing foreboding that it wasn’t exactly little.

_…at least a year here—although I sure hope for two._

Gulping down the knot in his throat he went through all his options once again. No, this one was his last hope. He had nothing to lose anymore.

Thank god for the american government being so greedy for money.

“Can I call someone?”, he rasped out. His voice sounded just as small as he felt.

His request was met with a mocking tone.

 _“Call?_ Kid, it’s almost two am. Don’t be silly. The earlier you are in your cell, the earlier you can get used to it. And now mo-”

“-I know my rights. I am allowed to call someone. You have to follow the law.”

He was just as surprised by where he took the strength to speak up from as the other, but his voice was steady and clearly challenging the older man. He gave him an irritated frown in return.

“Fine. As you wish, _your highness._ ”

With that, he stomped out of the room, visibly at the end of his patience for the night. Peter could only do as much as following him and hoping he didn’t just make a giant mistake.

But just how so often in life, he was proved wrong. Again.

The second they arrived at the small counter in the very back of the station—almost hidden behind huge, overstuffed file cabinets that have definitely seen better days—all his previously sprouted courage volatilized as reality came crashing down on him. Hard.

He could _never_ call Tony Stark.

Not only was it questionable whether he would even reach him, but also _no one_ would believe him. They would think it’s a joke. Not only the NYPD, but also Tony himself. Who'd believe some teen, calling in the middle of the night from a police station, claiming he is Spider-Man and needs to get bailed out for fuck knows how many grands?

Exactly. _No one._

And even if, how could he explain why some broke ass college kid had such a strong connection to Tony Stark, despite him being his boss?

He felt the nausea slowly creep in. His thoughts were racing. But even more important, they were running in circles. An endless litany of _‘I’m lost I’m lost I’m lost’,_ and an end was nowhere to be seen.

Trembling, he slowly let the earpiece sink down. His mind was blank. Behind him, he heard the exultant chortle of the cop. He knew from the first second that this was just a desperate attempt to buy himself a little more time, but it was pointless. He felt his heavy hand slump down on his shoulder and hold on like a vice, ready to drag him with him if needed—when Peter’s finger typed in a number seemingly on their own.

Both froze. Peter could only stare at the combination of numbers that was displayed in front of him. At first he didn’t recognize it, but somewhere in the back of his mind, a gravely deep but soothing voice finally assigned a name to the number. It filled his mind, endlessly on repeat, again and again until he felt like he would burst. The ponderous snort of the officer, as he let himself fall into the seat at the other end of the small space, eventually freed him from the swelling storm arising that were his thoughts.

_I would do everything for you._

_I am always there for you._

_You can count on me._

_I am just one call away._

His vision blurred until all he could see before his inner eye were the contours of a strong jawline and scarred skin, the upper half of the face covered by deep, red fabric. It was just a quick flash of memories but he recognized him anyway.

_Wade Wilson._

Every single thing the man had ever said to him suddenly came to his mind. In the few times they encountered, he had never paid much attention to his banter and flirtatious behaviour and certainly had not taken him serious. But the more he thought back, the more he realized just how earnest the man had seemed in these short moments when he pushed aside his usual banter. It almost hurt him how ignorant his own behaviour had been.

In the few months they knew each other and occasionally patrolled together, he strictly refused to see him as something more than a quick acquaintance, let alone a possible partner, even friend. And now he was the only one he knew who was rich enough or even up at this hour, let alone willing to help him out of his misery.

Gulping down the knot of plaguing guilt arising in his throat he finally dialed.

He could feel the man in the seat behind him stare burning holes in his back. A cold shiver found it’s way down his spine as the cell phone kept playing the dialing tone.

He picked up at the first ring.

But nothing would come out of his throat. The surreality of the situation hit him once again deep the gut until his whole world was circling. He was so close to loose it all. After a moment of silence, only interrupted by the steady whir of the old light bars, a deep husky voice sounded through the crackling speaker in a leisurely tone. It made his heart race and his stomach tighten.

“Who am I talking to?”

Peter cleared his throat nervously. He could feel his pulse pounding in his fingertips, desperately clinging to the phone. When he finally gathered himself enough to speak, he waited for another beat until he trusted his voice enough not to break within the first word.

“Um…h-hey.”

Against all his will, he couldn't help the high pitched shiver in his voice. The person on the other end let out a long, drained sigh. It let his breath hitch.

“Listen carefully, kid. If you’re calling because your Minecraft girlfriend broke up or some shit, this is the wrong number.”

Peter could literally feel him wanting to hang up the phone and he felt himself starting to panic. He only had this one call. This single chance. Driven by desperation the words somehow found their way out of his mouth completely by themselves.

“No! _Please.”_ He was well aware of his begging tone but he was far beyond caring.

“This—this is Peter. Peter—um…”

He struggled to find a way to make it clear to the man who he was without revealing it to the now expectantly listening policeman behind him. He cursed himself for using a voice enhancer in his suit.

A pause. Then:

“I don’t know any Peter.”

On the other end, Deadpool frowned. Who would call him at almost two am, if not for a hitman job? He sounded like a kid. Yet, the kid somehow had his mercenary number.

“ _Wade…_ ” Peter breathed helplessly, unable to think of anything else to say. It was barely audible.

The mercenary froze. His identity was no secret—yet it wasn’t too common for his clients to know his name. Let alone a teen. That was exactly what kept him from hanging up, just leaning in closer to the device. He had to think through and choose his next words carefully.

“Who gave you my number?”, he asked slowly, emphasizing every vowel as if the person on the other end couldn’t exactly follow.

Relieved that he hadn’t hung up on him the response came within a beat.

“You. You did. It—it’s me. Peter.”

After the brief confidence boost he received when the other kept the conversation going, he just fell back into blankly repeating his empty, meaningless explanation. Thick bonds of restraints were holding on tightly to his tongue, keeping him from saying all the things he wanted to burst out with in this very moment, shout until his throat burned, bitterly cry and weakly whisper.

Instead, he forced himself to swallow down all these arising emotions and take a steadying, deep breath. He sunk his teeth down in his bottom lip and and said in a low whisper, barely audible:

“Your Baby Boy.”

After a moment, when no answer would find its way through the steadily rustling earpiece, he feared he had been too quiet or the man had finally hung up on him. He felt his heart pounding against his ribs in his tiny little chest and was afraid everyone in the room, _god,_ even the man on the other end of the line, insofar he was still there, could hear it.

Wade’s eyes widened. Now he recognized the distantly familiar tone. Even thought it was slightly different, higher and on the brink of despair, it was still unmistakable.

Spider-Man has _never_ called him before. Let alone disguised himself like that, hoping for him to get the tiny glimpse of a hint he tried to convey to him. And if the man wouldn’t have been an experienced mercenary, he probably would have missed it. But he didn’t.

Spider-Man was in trouble and needed his help. People were listening, holding him back from saying things right away. And he called _him_.

_To save him._

The heavy weight of the trust put in him took the air out of his lungs for a second. But he quickly caught himself, unwilling to fail his friend in such a risky situation.

“Oh.” He forced his voice into a steady, mildly surprised tone. “It’s _you._ Right. Sorry, pumpkin. It’s late and you caught me off-guard. Say, what can I do for you, pretty?”

Peter sighed in relief. So far, so good. Now for the tricky part.

“I’m in jail.”

It came out abruptly and dry in a matter of factual way. But it still managed to crush the man’s expression, turning it into a blank mask, his brain unable to find any meaning in the sounds emerging from the cell phone.

“What.”, was all he managed to respond. Even with his best will, he couldn’t process it. The words just escaped his grip.

“I said, I am in jail”, the young man repeated patiently, “and I need you to bail me out.”

Within the end of the sentence he got quieter and quieter, until his voice was nothing more than just a thin whisper. He was shivering.

A long silence followed.

_This really is happening._

_Of course Deadp—Wade would say yes._

_Would he?_

_He told Spider-Man he would do anything for him and money was definitely no pro-_

It hit him unprepared.

_Spider-Man._

_He had said all these things to Spider-Man._

His blood ran cold at his realization. Then the police officer behind him shifted in his seat and impatiently put a hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Parker, I think the time is-”

“-Okay. Tell me where you are. I’m taking care of that.”

Peter let out the trembling breath he didn’t know he was holding in a frantic, relieved sigh.

“Thank you”, he huffed completely at the end of his nerves, not even sure if the man could hear him, before the officer quickly took over the phone to give Wade directions. Peter hadn’t even realized how cold he was until now, he could swear he heard his own teeth chatter but he was way too agitated to focus on that right now.

The next thing he knew was that he got shoved into a small cell with several other men by another cop, all obviously just as stressed out and sleep-deprived as himself. The cop quickly put his handcuffs back on, not minding the sharp hiss of pain Peter let out as he pulled them tightly around the irritated and sliced skin of his spinnerets. The door fell close with a heavy rumbling, followed by the jingling sound of keys turning in the door lock.

_Click._

There he was. Left alone once again, in a room full of exhausted, sweaty criminals.

Meanwhile, the clock hit two am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter Wade'll finally gonna see just what a pathetic lil mess his 'perfect Spidey' really is.  
> Leave comments and kudos if ya want, honestly I live for that!
> 
> Visit my Instagram [ here. ](https://www.instagram.com/hintof.mayhem/)
> 
> **[Posted January 17th 2020]**


	5. He's my Daddy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has no choice left and everyone's favorite murderer is more than eager to take care of that business. But as so often in life, everything comes at a cost, doesn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet, 4.7k! It may break some hearts at the beginning, but fluff is soon to come! Just stay strong :)) I'm officially challenging you to. Cuz I, for my part, couldn't hold my shit together while writing this.

He hadn’t realized that he had fallen asleep. Slumped against a wall on the cold floor next to a heavy wooden bench, hidden behind it due to his smaller frame.

The occupant of the bench was a loudly snoring, middle-aged man. His long, greasy hair was completely covering his face and moving in his breath. Lying on his side and facing the desolate gray wall, his feet were hanging over, slightly bobbing in harmony with his consistent snoring.

The remaining three men, excluding himself, were a hispanic old man in a thick brown cardigan, a visibly drug addicted dude in his twenties who just couldn’t hold his jerking foot still for even a second and a man of color, his face hidden deep behind the hood of his blue Linkin Park sweater and leaned tense against the wall.

Despite them clearly having the most dangerous and shady aura in the room, none of them could stop themselves from eyeing the sleeping figure of the college boy with sceptical glances from time to time.

In horrifying contrast to his curly brown hair and soft face, a small but nevertheless still visible amount of baby fat left, his white button up shirt was almost completely soaked in wine red blood. The remnants of his light jacked were torn in stripes and used as a bandage for his left arm. The fabric being red, no one could surely guess how soaked with blood it really was, but on second thought, no one really wanted to know, either. But the countless amount of bruises and cuts set in his pale skin, where the shirt was torn and holey, left nothing to the imagination for that matter.

If in a fight, everyone would run for their dear fucking lives. Who else than a complete psychopath could be such an innocent little college kid but also a blood soaked lunatic at the same time?

Everyone in the room jerked a little and Peter got woken abruptly as the heavy, barred door clicked and swung open, not without its hinges letting out a stretched, pitiful creak.

The new arrivals were two men who quickly stepped inside and overstuffed the small, sweaty room even more. One impatient, one wary. The first one was a different officer than before, looking stressed out with bloodshot eyes and dark bags underneath them. He was clutching his belt, his fingers drumming steadily on the thick, brown leather. His companion was a tall man wearing a big bomber jacket over a forest green hoodie. The hood was pulled deep into his face. He was holding a messy stack of papers in a hand covered in dense, bulging scars—the other was buried deep in one of the many pockets of his heavy black pants. Besides his hand, the lower part of his chin was the only skin that was illuminated by the dim light.

It was almost completely quiet in the room except for the steady buzzing of the lights and the rustling of metal as the officer unfastened heavy keys from his belt and looked around the room. The big stranger followed his gaze, eyeing the occupants as if trying to figure out who of them could possibly be Peter _—Spider-Man—_ obviously overlooking him, as hunched in in the cold corner behind the massive bench as he was.

“Mr. Parker.”, the officer impatiently said, strumming with his keys.

Silence followed. The air was filled with anticipation.

Peter had never seen Deadpool without his mask. Only ever his chin when he rolled the fabric up to eat, and even then he quickly stuffed his tacos inside. He felt miserable as he realized what a big deal it was for the man to show up in civilian clothes in a fucking police station. _For him._ He still dared to give a proper look at him and— _god._

_Oh no._

He looked pissed _._ Furious. _Beyond mad._

He gulped thickly. His heart was beating like wild in his tiny little chest and suddenly he felt _so small._ He instinctively hunched together closer, causing his handcuffs to bump together. The sudden high sound ripped through the air like a katana. Wade’s look immediately shot in his direction and—their eyes met.

Peter froze. Bit his lip and gulped anxiously. He felt so small and exposed, so vulnerable, like prey to its hunter.

Wade’s eyes narrowed. The younger man couldn’t read his expression, but his body language said it all. Peter was suddenly very aware of his own pathetic appearance and couldn’t stand looking into his eyes any longer.

Ashamed, he looked away.

The officer, visibly irritated, huffed and approached him. Uncaring he grasped at the bloody shirt on his left shoulder and harshly yanked him to his feet. The sound of fabric ripping echoed through the otherwise dead silent room. Peter flinched violently under the officer’s vice grip and released a choked gasp because of the sudden pain that shot down his spine, sparkling like electricity. Out of the corner of his narrowed, tearing eyes he could make out a dark shadow moving.

A big, scarred hand gripped the officer’s one tight, forcing him to let go and Peter slumped against the wall, angling his wound side away from the happening in an attempt to give himself at least a little bit of protection. He had bitten his lip so hard in surprise, he could taste something metallic lightly dripping down the corner of his mouth.

The tall stranger was staring coldly at the officer, face no longer in the shadows. The other man hastily took a few steps back as Wade eventually let his hand go, not without letting out a low growl. Then he turned his attention fully to Peter again, urged against the wall, expression still filled with surprise and-

_Fear._

Wade’s eyes softened for a moment when he saw him like that, caused by no other than _himself._ Worried, he eyed him for the first time completely. What he saw let his expression fall apart almost immediately.

His once white, blood soaked button-up was nothing more than a rag hanging loosely around his frame, baring the gaping stabwound and countless other bruises and cuts. Wade knew such kind of wounds. Hell, he had dealt them himself. And they were the _worst._ It had doubtlessly been a jagged blade and was turned around till it had tattered even the deepest layer of tissue. His black pants were more of a gaping hole than ripped jeans and when he looked up to his face—he felt a sudden sting in his heart.

Blood was slowly dribbling down from the corner of his mouth and his cheek had a long, thin cut right under his eye which was already starting to change into a light purple. Definitely a massive shiner by tomorrow.

The worst thing, he was showing absolutely no sign of healing.

Deadpool knew that Spider-Man had a healing factor, albeit not as strong as his own, and the complete lack of it let him suddenly get very aware of the young hero’s dire condition. He looked young, awfully young. He couldn’t be possibly older than twenty.

Suddenly, Wade was filled with the irresistibly strong urge to _protect._

Protect him.

Spidey.

_Peter._

Their eyes locked. After seeing the concerned, longing look in his electric blue eyes, the younger boy’s expression slowly changed from scared to curious, his tension slightly easing. As Wade carefully stretched out an arm in his direction, Peter, without hesitation, stepped closer and behind the tall, muscular man shielding him from the officer before he could even think about it. His shoulder was barely brushing the back of Wade’s arm, only reminding the young hero of his wretched, smaller appearance and he cursed himself that his body reacted so naturally to the stronger man’s call. He shivered in the powerful aura that surrounded the man in front of him.

Meanwhile Wade had turned his attention back to the police officer, still looking unsure at the mercenary and one hand shaking just over the holster strapped to his belt. With a short motion of his chin Wade gestured to the door and he nearly tripped over his own feet, so hasty he had it to get out of the room, to bring space between him and the big, horribly scarred stranger.

Peter followed close to Wade’s back on their way out, holding his wounded side as he catched the expressions of the remaining three occupants he had totally forgot about in the heat of the rushing events. Everyone was terrified and pressed close to their respective corner or wall, desperately trying to not get caught in the crossfire or even draw the man’s attention to them—except one. The young drug addict, slightly older than Peter himself, was still sitting on the floor as before, mimicking a whistle with his thumb and index finger and leering knowingly at him.

“Ooh, is that your Daddy?”, he heard him call and laugh smugly just as the door fell shut, not in time to smother the sound behind the thick metal. Peter went pale and gulped. If the merc in front of him had heard anything, he didn’t show it.

They arrived at the reception in the very front of the police station and the officer wasted no time leaving them alone with his much younger colleague who furrowed his brows in confusion at the weird behaviour of his superior when he walked away in a half run. Then he turned around and took in the sight in front of him as his expression slowly fell apart.

The young cop nervously cleared his throat once, twice and coughed awkwardly afterwards before he finally found enough courage to reach for Peters handcuffs under the piercing death glare of the ill-tempered man. He quickly retreated thought as the man intensified his glare at his intention to reach for the smaller boy and he eventually settled for a cut off motion of his hand, indicating for him to come closer by himself. He removed the tight restraints that were cutting into the soft flesh of Peter’s wrists and spinnerets with every movement, hands trembling, struggling with the keys and getting more and more panicked with every second of the expectant gaze of the mercenary literally burning him until they finally snapped open. Afterwards he handed him a stack of papers and a pen.

“You—er…your signature, please.”

He avoided looking either of them in the eyes and fiddled with the leather of his belt instead until he got promptly stopped by a warning look of Wade's when his fingers came too close to the holster strapped to it.

Meanwhile Peter couldn’t process that this _really was happening._

_Wade Winston Wilson aka Deadpool is about to bail me out of jail._

The sudden impulse to laugh, followed suit by the one to cry struck him. But he was sure it was just the panic arising once again at this point. He forced himself to focus.

Biting his already abundantly abused lip, he set his signature and handed the papers back.

“So uh—he is your…”, the cop stammered and left the sentence unfinished in the hope that he would complete it and save him from any further inconveniences. He was visibly uncomfortable, eyeing Wade with quick glances here and then, but needing this information for the paperwork.

This hit Peter unexpectedly. How was he going to explain—but before he could resist, his mouth opened as if by its own will, remembering what the guy in the cell had said.

“He’s my Dadd—”

In shock over his own sudden words, his jaw dropped open and he quickly tried to cover it up with a series of heavy coughs. His throat was indeed sore and aching with the dried blood clogging it, he discovered.

He could feel the unfathomable gaze of the merc lingering on him. He gulped down the knot in his throat and forced himself to speak.

“I—I mean…he’s my Dad. Yeah.”, he stated flatly.

The police officer shot a sceptical look up to the man in question and his expression faded to blank horror by daring to directly look him in the face, hitherto prevented by his deep-drawn hood, for the first time. Even though most of it was still in the shadows, these electric blues were outright burning. It was enough.

Peter doubted anyone would ever ask any more questions on this case, and even if, the mercenary wouldn’t hesitate to do everything that was needed to protect him suddenly shot through his mind. He forcefully tried to drown and blight such selfish kind of thoughts arising in his mind, but deep in his gut he knew; it was true.

_Was it…?_

“Sure, yeah, great! Y—you are free to go, I, um…—” The cop looked to at the ground for a few seconds and then awkwardly turned away to store the papers deep in some folder in one of these shabby, hoary file cabinets where no one would find them and make them see the light of day ever again.

They were left alone. Left alone for the first time since they entered the station. Left alone for the first time ever out of their suits, face to face.

Finally left alone, they stood in silence.

Peter could still feel Wade’s eyes resting on him, but he couldn’t get himself to look up and meet his gaze. Instead, all he did was look at the ground, unsure of what to do next. Hands pressed to his body, shivering, trying to cover his hurt side.

 _God_ , he must _hate_ him.

That pathetic little piece of misery he is right now is definitely not what he ever expected Spider-Man to be. He will never talk to him again. Let alone bother to spend time with him. He’s just a big, giant disappointment, not worth his time, not worth—his thoughts abruptly got interrupted by a big, warm hand rubbing hesitantly but gentle over the small of his back, soothing the arising storm of his roaring thoughts that threatened to drown him in their depths. The older man must have seen the change in his demeanor, the panic in his features and the guilt in his eyes—he visibly relaxed which caused the bigger man to let out a relieved sigh. He let himself get pulled closer, barely brushing his side with his own. He was warm… 

_So warm…-_

Suddenly he was very aware of how cold it was and how he was horribly shivering in his hopelessly torn and soaked clothes. The boy looked around and was surprised to find himself standing outside, several yards away from the police station when he abruptly stopped.

Wade must have led them outside and he blindly followed him, tucked in safely against the strong man’s warm side. In an attempt to stop himself from shivering, he sunk his teeth down deep in his already bloody bottom lip, barely feeling the pain due to the numbening cold. Wade seemed to notice something was wrong; his deep, husky voice echoed through the deserted street, unable to keep it from softening in concern.

“Peter?”

Hearing the mercenary say his name for the first time in such a deep tone sent another shiver down his spine. He didn’t react. He _couldn’t._

_God, he was so cold…_

The young hero barely registered the sound of fabric moving and shifting when he felt a sudden weight on his shoulders and soon, he was enveloped in wonderful warmth. He gasped in surprise and sighed at the pleasant feeling, stumbling forward a few steps until his body was met with something firm and warm. His arms shot up in reflex, planting themselves on said firmth.

_Firm muscles. Warm skin. Raw texture underneath the cloth…_

He gasped in realization and unintentionally breathed in the familiar scent, slightly musky with a note of cedar—

But it was too late already because he felt strong, muscular arms wrap gently around his smaller frame, causing his cheek to rest softly against a warm neck. He trembled and couldn’t resist the urge to press his slim body even closer to the big mercenary’s in its tempting promise of warmth and safety, feeling his muscles, his skin, his scars through the torn parts of his clothing. The arms around his shoulders tightened.

They stood like that for what could have been minutes, hours or maybe only seconds but felt like an entire eternity.

Then, Peter could feel a warm breath at the back of his neck and something soft brush against his ear. He found himself needily lifting his chin to chase the touch, unable to control himself. He buried his nose in the curve of the taller man’s neck, standing fully on his tippy toes.

“Peter…”, a voice softly murmured in his ear.

He closed his eyes at the sound. A sob escaped him.

And as with a blow, all the pressure of the whole day fell from his shoulders, captured in the mercenary’s warm embrace.

 _Safe._ _Protected. Exactly where he belonged…_

A warm hand was still gently running up and down his lower back as he continued to sob into the man’s shoulder, letting everything out. This must be the worst day in his entire life and the most pathetic moment he ever had, witnessed by the person which he would have wanted the least to see him this grounded, this vulnerable. He couldn’t understand how he still could hold him like that, still be here, still soothingly rub his back in slow circles…he could never look into his eyes ever again. And now he even knew his identity.

Eventually the young hero would stop and let out an unsteady, trembling breath, trying to gather himself. He hadn’t realized that Wade had meanwhile rested his own cheek against his and put a hand on his head, his fingers tangled in his dark brown curls and lazily moving while buried deep in his soft hair. The other hand was still slowly rubbing circles over his lower back.

For a long moment Peter relaxed in his arms and just took everything in. Breathed in his intoxicating scent.

Then he slowly, hesitantly lifted his head to look into the man’s eyes.

The way they looked down at him, a mix of an electric and soft baby blue, filled with honest concern took his breath away and left him staring at them, unable to tear his eyes apart from their intense depth that threatened to devour him the longer his gaze lingered on them. He was hopelessly lost.

A small smile appeared on the mercenary’s scarred face and pulled the angles of his mouth up a tiny bit.

“Just like that, alright?”, he softly cooed, brushing over his cheekbone with a thumb. Peter closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, the scars softer and warmer on his skin than he had expected, letting out a long sigh.

He couldn’t care less about the situation right now. He would probably curse himself for this later, but right now, nothing else than Wade’s warmth mattered to him.

Or at least, it should.

Because somehow, it eventually occurred to his clouded mind just what the _heck_ _he was doing._

It was almost three am in the _goddamn morning_ and he was standing in the middle of a deserted street next to a police station, snuggled close to a _ruthless gun for hire_ that now even knew Spider-Man’s secret identity and had literally bailed him out of jail.

This realization was what made him pull away abruptly and trip a couple of steps backwards, bringing space between the mercenary and him. The pine green bomber jacket he had previously given him was lying cold on the tarmac between them, as if pulling a clear line, after it had slipped from his shoulders in the sudden movement.

He lifted his gaze from the jacket, just in time to catch a small but nevertheless unmistakable hint of _hurt_ in the merc’s beautiful eyes before they turned to a cold, distant blue again. He averted his gaze and cleared his throat several times before quickly picking up his jacket.

“Wade, no—I didn’t mean to—I mean, I—…”

The words got stuck and lay heavy in his throat, tying it together and not allowing to let anything in or out anymore. He sent him a helpless look instead, silently praying for it to express everything his words couldn’t. _Never could._

But Wade didn’t even look at him. He was already half turned around, lifted his jacket over his shoulders when he paused for a moment, the dark green cloth hovering over him. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded calm and distant, leaving nothing but a wall of coldness between them. Colder even than the cool night air around them, but this time, it didn’t left him shivering. It left him empty. The sudden loss of something he couldn’t name, couldn’t even put his finger on, had just barely started to understand left his chest aching with a silent gasp.

“You should probably go home, kiddo. Got classes in the morning, right?”

The cold dismissal in his monotone voice he didn’t even _try_ to hide hit him with full force. His shoulders flinched in an involuntary, bitter cold shudder. His breath hitched and he clutched his arms at his side at the strange feeling rolling over him. Well, not exactly _strange._ He just hadn’t seen this old companion in a long time.

Right. He was just a kid to him. And he had just pitied him when he had let him sob at his shoulder like the goddamn toddler that he was. He should just go home and never go out again, his renowned companion hissed in the back of his mind, just go

_Except that he couldn’t._

Jalome Beacher, _Slyde,_ was still on the loose, without any doubt lurking at his apartment and just waiting for his turn on revenge. Bloody revenge. Imprisoned, he would’ve at least been safe. Now there was no way he could keep up against _anyone_ in his state. He was at the end of his powers. He was _doomed._

 _“I can’t…”,_ he whispered under his breath, barely audible. Nothing more than a quiet mumble, but the other male still catched it and it caused him to stop in his walk and slowly turn around, facing Peter one more time.

“What?”, came blankly after a moment, in a tone just as low.

Peter gulped. His shoulders slumped down and pain shot through his sternum again. Looking unfeelingly at the deep, black tarmac underneath him, his eyes catched a glimpse of red on his wrists. Mindlessly he turned them around, not prepared for what he got to lay his eyes on.

His wrists and palms were sliced and bruised. Weakly pulsing, slow trickles of blood were still flowing over the dust and filth covered skin as he stared blankly at his shaking hands. His sensitive spinnerets were _ruined_ and his healing factor seemed like wiped out. The organ, insofar you could still consider this mess as one, felt sore. _Wrecked._ He could _never_ swing with them, let alone to his place at the other end of New York. Even the simple thought of it sent sparks of pain rushing through them in a last, weak protest.

Wade’s eyes widened as his gaze travelled down his body, following his view and understanding immediately. Not a single soul knew his secret; his webs were actually organic.

_I wonder if he’s disgusted by it._

The thought shot though his mind but in reality, he found that he didn’t care. Not anymore. Not after how Deadpool had already seen him…and that wasn’t even his biggest problem. He had no place to go and the villain would hunt him down eventually, now that his healing factor was out of the way.

He was _so dead._

This was the end of Spider-Man.

The absurdity of his situation, his unbelievable misery forced a huffed laugh from his lungs. Deadpool eyed him with a concerned look, taking an uncertain step in his direction as his choked, huffed laughs turned into uneasy, rattling breath coming in thrusts which got more and more shallow.

He was having a panic attack. He was having a panic attack right in front of _Deadpool._ He was making his own downfall even more pathetic than he thought it could possibly get as—strong arms wrapped around his hunched frame, urging him to sit on the ground, holding him carefully but determined by the shoulders and giving him directions to breathe.

At first, he couldn’t focus on what the older male was saying, but finally the warm hands rubbing reassuringly up and down his body relaxed him enough to follow the calming, low voice to take slow breaths, one carefully after another.

“—’s good, okay? Just like that.”, the worried man cooed gently and with a final deep breath Peter’s vision stopped swimming.

“I’m so, so sorry, Spidey. I know you’re going through something tough right now, sorry for leaving you.” The boy was still too confused to register the quiver in his voice which the man tried to hold back.

“It’s okay. I don’t judge you, you are not pathetic or anything like that. I’m always here for you.”

_I’m always there for you._

_I would do everything for you._

_You can count on me._

_I’m just one call away._

The words the man once had said to him ghosted through his mind, over and over again. It filled him with a strange feel of _warmth_ , repressing and replacing the sinister little companion that had taken the opportunity and conquered his mind, just as he used to, not even that long ago. He wanted to get lost in this pleasant feeling, but something in the words of the man let him hesitate.

He froze. Did he—

“Yeah, you tend to speak out loud when you’re stressed”, Wade chuckled softly, trying to sound soothing. But the blank horror reflected in his face was what made him pull back, just enough to properly look him into the eyes and take his shaking hands in his, assuring him everything was alright.

“Let’s calm down first, shall we? We can talk about this later—or not, if you don’t want to—but let’s get some place better for now, okay?”

The web-slinger nodded slowly and let out a breath of relief he didn’t know he was holding.

“Yeah…”, he agreed weakly.

Together with Wade’s help they carefully stood up and Peter was again enveloped with the warmth of the big, deep green bomber jacket. It was full of his intoxicating, pleasant scent he surprisingly already grew familiar with in little to no time. Securely tucked in to the merc’s side, they began to slowly walk down the alley, the bigger male patiently adjusting himself to the smaller boy’s shorter steps.

“Wait—where—”

“It’s okay, you can stay at a safehouse of mine’s for tonight—well, more like the rest of the morning. Or as long as you need.”, he cut him off.

“No pressure or anything, though!”, he quickly added at Peter’s startled look. “It’s no big deal, really. It’s just a safehouse I never use, it’s clean and I will certainly not do anything you don’t want, Pete.”

At the soft tone in Wade’s voice he just pressed closer to the older man’s side, humming sleepily in approvement.

“Just want you to catch some sleep and get better, baby boy. You’ll be safe with me, I promise you.”

For the first time in what felt like ever, Peter cracked a gentle smile. A small, warm smile, barely noticeable. But Wade saw it nonetheless; it just encouraged him to put an arm around the sleepy young hero. Quietly they walked through the already dawning streets of New York City to Wade’s apartment.

Peter doesn’t remember arriving there and lying down in a giant, soft bed where he immediately fell into a deep slumber in; all he can recall are strong arms holding him and carefully helping him out of his ruined clothes, along with the tickling sensation of something soft brushing over his hurt wrists as they were cleaned gingerly. When the entrance door fell close, carefully not to wake him and he was left alone in the dark apartment, he was already asleep deeply and soundly in the endearing warmth of Wade’s bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh. Seems like the regret is running late today. I wonder where it is. Let's find out next friday, shall we?  
> Lmk what you think in the comments, I'm officially out of buffer chapters and am in desperate need of them. Pray for me.
> 
> Visit my Instagram [ here. ](https://www.instagram.com/hintof.mayhem/) There you can also find the art in this chapter and more by me! 
> 
> **[Posted January 24th 2020]**


	6. Headless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Completely disorentated, Peter wakes up. Alone. In silence. And sometimes, quiet is violent.
> 
> (This chapter is still to be edited later)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TRIGGER WARNING**  
>  This chapter contains graphical depictions of self harm, depression and suicide. Please skip this chapter if you don't feel safe with these topics. I will leave a safer summary in the end notes, I promise this is the only time such things happen in this book and everything will get better from now on. I solely write about these topics for things to get better right after and give people hope for better times. Please stay safe. xo  
> \- - - - - - - - - -  
> Sorry for posting two days late! And also, wow! Almost 1k Hits! Thank you guys so much <3  
> And as you may have noticed, the chapter count has gone up! Yay, us!
> 
> As I have mentioned on my instagram, the updates will most likely come bi-weekly now due to the upcoming thesis paper I have to write. Go follow me on instagram [@hintof.mayhem](https://www.instagram.com/hintof.mayhem/) for status updates if yall haven't already! Also looking for betas.  
> Enjoy this angsty chapter and I promise, tooth-rotting fluff is just within reach!

Reluctantly Peter opened his eyes. His whole body was stiff and drained. As he lifted his hands to press them into his face, nothing came. Perplexed, he dared to dart his gaze downwards his body, only to instantly regret it. Even the slightest eye movement made him feel dizzy and he could feel his pulse hammering in his head. _God_ , did his head feel… so light and vulnerable. As if headless.

  


After his mind stopped spinning and the grimace left his face, he took several deep breaths. He forced himself to concentrate on them rather than the deafening sound of his wildly beating heart, until all he could hear was his steady breathing. Without opening his eyes, he tried to move his hands again. The week impulse had no way of even getting past his upper arms. So he relaxed and ran his tongue over his teeth. All there. Good. Bit for bit, he tensed and relaxed his muscles, slowly working his way down his body until he could feel the soft fabric of the comforter with his fingertips. This made his whole body tense at once and he gasped as he felt parts of his skin stretch dangerously, making him feel like all it would take to tear it apart was one more deep breath.

  


This wasn’t his blanket. The blanket he had on his worn out fieldbed was itchy and thin. _This one…_ it was unbelievably soft. Gentle like velvet on his skin. He felt like sinking into it, together with the…

  


The giant, king sized bed.

  


He was in a stranger’s king sized bed, injured and vulnerable. _Helpless_ and-

  


Suddenly, he became completely still. He barely noticed that he sat up with measured movements until his hands were clutching the white comforter and after a beat, he abruptly pulled it away.

  


He wished he hadn’t.

  


The sight of what could most likely be considered his _very own body_ could have been enough to send him straight into nirvana again. Instead, he tried to gulp down the knot building up in his bone-dry throat. He felt a wave of nausea rolling over him but quickly forced it down with all of his remaining strength. If he’d puke _now_ , he’d most likely suffocate at his own vomit. He _knew it_ , if the state of his throat was anything to go by.

  


He pressed his eyes shut and counted to ten. Then he opened them again and let his gaze slowly wander along the contours of his body, his muscles, his exposed skin. But before he could pursue the lines of scars and bandages any further, his sight got occupied with grey fabric. At least he was wearing his boxers. At least-

  


Except for the big, fat Avengers-Emblem emblazoned on them.

  


_He was wearing his Avengers boxer shorts while being kidnapp-_

  


The heavy string of thoughts this set lose even made him tear his gaze from his bruises and cuts covered body which was wrapped in blood soaked bandages. His eyes haphazardly darted around the unfamiliar room, only to settle on his very own wrists. There was a pink post it taped to the surprisingly clean bandages around them with cupcake washi tape. The unicorn in the corner of the post it design grinned happily up to him. Before he could even think about it, his body tensed and he heard himself lowly hiss at it, expression and eyes narrowing.

  


Shocked over himself, he shook his head.

  


What was _wrong_ with his body? Or was it just his spider-biology being so over-cautious and morose because of his state that it even considered a _fucking children’s cartoon unicorn_ as a threat?

  


He sighed deeply, annoyed by his other half which _definitely had a problem._

  


Then he turned his attention back to the little, pink sheet of paper attached to his arm. What was his life even at this point? In his mind, he went through every memory about what could possibly have happened once more. Absolutely nothing. Again. The last thing his body remembered was the warmth and skin contact of a person. Maybe his kidnapper doing _fuck knows what_ to him?

  


He huffed a sarcastic laugh before finally starting to decipher the shaky letters.

  


It blew away all of his thoughts, previously raging like a thunderstorm, until his mind was completely blank.

  


And with that, everything came crashing back.

  


Slyde’s sudden attack and their fight in the alleyway. His escape over the rooftops and how he instinctively swung back home, this memory hazy and clouded by heavy fog. The cops completely overwhelming him and dragging him to the station. What happened from there on made him cringe and blush a deep crimson red, spreading its way down over his bare neck and shoulders. This was a _nightmare_. And if he wouldn’t have been so wrecked already, he would have pinched himself. _Hard._

  


His previously by the realization blurred view started to focus again and he skimmed over the little note once more. Then again. And again. His mind repeatedly refused to understand this sequence of letters lined up behind each other to form a certain meaning. _He_ refused to understand it.

  


Letting his hands sink down in his lap, he closed his eyes and moistened his chapped lips with an equally as dry tongue. In his mind, he heard the echo of these words he couldn’t find a sense in, spoken by a pleasant, deep voice. He knew this tone. He knew it very well.

  


It was the voice of the man who had taken care of him while he was almost entirely passed out. He wasn’t able to make out the words that were spoken, but somewhere in the steady nonsense said to him at a low volume, he found security. He couldn’t fight the warmth spreading in his whole body at this faint, but precious memory. His mind was filled with the ever so familiar voice again.

  


  


> _Good morning, baby boy._
> 
> __
> 
> Hope you had a nice sleep. Don’t worry about anything, that’s my job. You are alive and in safety, okay? Your stuff and a few more minor things I got you are on the bedside table. Don’t hurry and take your time, alright? I’m just one call away.
> 
> __
> 
> PS: I haven’t done anything to you other than taking care of your wounds. Be careful with the stitches!
> 
> __
> 
> _xoxo  
>  -W.W.W_.

  
  
  
  


A big, colorful Avengers-Emblem was cheerfully drawn at the end of the message. He felt his fist clench with the wave of embarrassment rolling over him. He _had_ looked, after all!

  


The paper crumpled up in his tight grip. As he realized that, he hastily opened his fist and carefully evened it out again. Then he paused in the middle of his movements.

  


Why the heck did he care about-

  


Nope. Now was not the time to think about such nonsense.

  


He turned his head to look at the nightstand instead. Or rather, what was on it. Because there was not a single inch of the nightstand uncovered for him to see. Beside a brand new burner phone which looked like that indestructible nokia 3310 was lying a pile of clothing on a literal tower of pizza boxes. He was able to count seven of them until his head was spinning again from overstretching his neck. Suddenly, the intoxicating smell of melted cheese, crusty bread and tomato sauce hit him and he couldn’t focus on anything else anymore. His mouth watered and he could feel his arms moving as if by themselves; reaching out for the nearest box, he placed it in his lap with shaky hands since he was still awfully weak.

  


Then he remembered what exactly had woken him up.

  


And as with a blow, all the other sensations his spider-biology was fading out in favor to protect him in his disorientated and vulnerable state came back. All at once.

  


His stomach immediately growled a deep, infuriated growl. His whole upper body tensed with the strong pull, coming right from his guts through his whole body. It left him feeling empty, his body twitching in the after effects of the pull, yearning for something, _anything_ to get between his teeth. Then, all the rest of the pain found its way back to him.

  


His completely drained, _wrecked_ body wrapped in blood soaked bandages. He could feel every yet so little cut, every stitch, every bruise. It was too much. Too much at once. He doubled up, pressing his forehead to the greasy and still warm box. Clutching his stomach, he struggled to regain his breath and gritted his teeth.

  


Normally, all his wounds would have been healed completely within a day. But he was far from normal at the moment. No, in fact, he hadn’t eaten since the last time he had left his house for college and then his lab… last morning. He _hoped_ it had been yesterday, at least. And something in the way his body, his other half, was yearning for food and almost internally _screaming_ in exhaustion, told him he hadn’t had more than six hours of sleep, either.

  


Just now he noticed how badly he was trembling with the effort to stay in this upright position, not to mention to stay conscious in general. On some days, he needed food enough for three people to just heal minor injuries like bruised ribs overnight. Now, he felt like he could eat enough for a whole christian family reunion.

  


Without further hesitation, he opened the first pizza box and greedily picked up a large slice to shove into his mouth; for a second he felt bad for being so greedy but then he remembered that he was literally starving and continued to devour one pizza slice after another until, after some time, four boxes were lying on the floor beside the bed. He wasn’t exactly fed up but at least he wasn’t feeling like he would die any second from starvation and his spider-biology had also calmed down. For now.

  


He sighed contentedly and took his time to look around the room once more, since his first attempt to get a look on his surroundings was driven by panic and he couldn’t get a clear view on anything. He instantly noticed the mess he’d made. He hadn’t even thought and much less would he have cared about making crumbs. Now the godly soft comforter was covered in tiny crumbs. He bit his lip. Not the best first impression one could wish for, huh?

  


_〘First impression? Seriously? You screwed it up already, remember? Pathetic.〙_

  


While he was trying to gather up the largest crumbs and put them into one of the empty boxes he had left, his mind wandered to the king sized bed and velvet-like blanket again.

  


_‘Just a safehouse I never use_ ’?! Was the man serious? _This_ was seriously just staying around and waiting for an injured little spider to get dropped off here? It was the best thing he had ever slept on. Oh, and believe him, he had slept on _many_ things in his short, broke life. From rock hard tarmac to a literal crane. Lost in thought, he traced the intertwined, complex pattern of the comforter.

  


_Was everything so tender and gentle because of his skin? Is it sensitive? Does it… hurt?_

  


He shook his head violently.

  


No. It was not his business to worry about the mercenary’s problems.

  


But on the other hand… the man had done more for him than he could have ever asked for. Saved his life, taken care of him, _protected_ and _fed_ him and allowed him to bleed on his ass expensive luxury bed. The least he could do was not to deny being also worried about him. Ever since the first time the merc had slightly rolled up his mask to quickly stuff tacos inside his mouth, if he was honest with himself.

  


Which, of course, he wasn’t. He’s not seriously worrying about some mercenary, he told himself.

  


With his newly regenerated strength he shifted around in the giant bed to grab some of the clothes waiting for him but he didn’t get very far because his eyes landed on his backpack. Leaned against the bed leg, just waiting for him. He stared at it for several seconds. Or minutes. He didn’t knew. His mind was racing.

  


He quickly picked it up and didn’t even mind the sting in his side as he bent down and overstretched the skin. Throwing the backpack in his lap, he opened it and started to go through his things. College books, front door keys, his suit, papers - everything was scattered around the bed in little to no time. After a moment of trying to memorize what he had hurriedly stuffed in it the morning he had left his house, he gladly realized that nothing was missing.

  


_〘Of course. What were you even thinking? That some rich mercenary like him would need to steal from a pathetic, broke little nerd? Have you finally gone crazy? Wake the fuck up.〙_

  


He was struck by a sudden wave of guilt. Why the _fuck_ would he think something was missing? The man had saved him and taken care of him. He should be fucking _grateful_ than worried about his anyway worthless, personal stuff. So he carefully put everything back in, only hesitating as his hands reached for the firm fabric of his suit. 

  


Spider-man, _hah_.

  


The _amazing_ Spider-Man. Strong, fast, smart and witty _Spider-Man._

  


He took the mask in his shaking hands and watched the fabrig getting crumpled up in his tight grip, just as tight as the grip he wished he had on his life. The solid grip he wanted to have on Spider-Man and never let go again, _become_ the hero he pretended to be night for night _for night. Every single day._ He had long since stopped counting the years.

  


The man, the _boy_ behind the mask was _nothing. No one._ And definitely not worth to bear the glorious name of Spider-Man, a true hero which people respected.

  


If they knew just _what a mess_ was pitifully hiding himself behind the self-confident icon. Staining his name and pulling him into the dirt.

  


_〘They would despise you. Take everything you have from you. Tear you apart until you wish you’d never even have decided to play the ‘super hero’ and just ended your pathetic existence before you could harm anyone, mutant fuck-up. And yet, we’re here. Just to suffer. Was it worth it? All the lives you have taken with your little, childish game. It’s not too late to pay for your deeds yet.〙_

  


He pressed his eyes shut.

  


No. He wouldn’t. He _didn’t want to._

  


_〘Who cares about what you want. The fact that you still think you have any right on mercy when in reality you have never even had it in the first place-〙_

  
**_No!_**

  


He pressed his hands into his face, tugged at his hair and dug his nails into his skull. His shoulders trembled as he hunched together, his mask and his belongings, long since forgotten, slipping from the mattress and hitting the floor with a loud slam. A choked sob escaped him, and much more were to follow.

  


_Everything_ was going _so well._ _He_ was doing _so well_. And then everything he had built up just had to collapse until he found himself at the ground. Again.

  


_〘Right where you belong.〙_

  


_**STOP IT!**_

  


His breath went wild and he heard himself whimpering. He was whispering something under his breath, he knew it, but he couldn’t make out what that was even with his best will. In an attempt to distract himself from the litany of maledictions his mind was throwing at him, he tore his arms from his head and looked around for something for his eyes to cling to, like an anchor to hold him in reality. A mistake.

  


The moment his eyes fell on the papers, haphazardly strewn across the whole floor, his body went limp. And just like that, all the tension disappeared from him.

  


While looking numbly at the big, bright letters, he felt his mind settle down.

  


  


_He_ was unfeeling. _Emotionless._

  


_It_ was black on white. _Crystal clear._

  


  


He didn’t have to read, not even skim the papers to know what they were about. The bail documents. The numbers at the bottom, ink a deep, fiery red, were grinning up to him, mocking him.

  


  


_Ten thousand dollars._

  


  


Ten thousand dollars he could never _ever_ afford. He didn’t even knew if he even had made this much in his _entire life._ He was a broke college student and the money he got from his Stark Industries internship was barely enough to pay rent and fuel his enhanced mutant metabolism.

  


He would _go down_ with these debts.

  


The room was eerie silent. Then, and he had no plan how many time had passed, the silence got interrupted by the sound of fabric tearing. He didn’t have to look down to know what his hands were doing. These movements were familiar. _So easy._ He had long since stopped doing this, but never forgotten.

  


The first slice made him gasp and inhale sharply. He was shivering by the time when the bandages around his wrists fell off completely, baring soft, clean skin. Only a small stripe of red which was quickly spreading interrupted the beautiful sight.

  


It would have happened anyway, no matter what. No matter when. It was set in stone the moment he entered the bus for that damn field trip where the spider had bit him. The only difference was, that he decided it himself. Even if he had basically no choice under the suffocating weight of his deeds, in this very moment, he was in control. He and no one else. And no one could take that away from him. Not this time.

  


_And never again_.

  


One last glance around the room while his nails dug deeper into his tender flesh. His eyes wandered over the remaining pizza boxes, the pile of carefully folded clothing over to the small burner phone. Should he use it? To, what? Call Wade? Maybe he should leave him something. Or maybe he shouldn’t bother him any more than he already had. He had already made a phone call, not too long ago. And it had been one phone call too much. Besides, the sight of him after this would be message enough. He quickly wondered if he was doing any harm towards the man by doing so but came to the conclusion that it didn’t matter.

  


After all, he had experience in disposing bodies.

  


The comforter greedily soaked up the red once his hand fell in his lap, whole body trembling, yet filled by an unfathomable calm. He let his eyes fall shut with such a resolute finality, he wondered why he had dragged this out for so long. _Too long._ If he had known about the sweet relief it brought with it, he wouldn’t have put it off for so long.

  


For once, his mind was silent. The last time it had been was so long ago, he had long since forgotten how it felt. It have been eight years since he has been burdened with the curse his powers. Now he could finally take a break.

  


His back met the velvet-like pillow. His body relaxed. His smile faded.

  


There was a knock on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this chapter! Funfact, I NEVER planned to go this dark with this book! It just came out like that. Originally I planned him to only be extremely worried about the debt he has and then would come the knock on the door and everything would be over. Well, things never go the way they're supposed to, anyway. Please let me know what you think in the comments, I live for that >v<
> 
> Summary: Peter wakes up and finds himself in a strange room. His wounds were treated but he is literally starving, which prevents his wounds from healing completely. Luckily, he finds about half a dozen of pizza boxes on the side table as well as a lovely note from Wade. After he finished devouring half of the boxes, he spots his backpack and has his first doubts, all the long accompanied by a sinister little companion in the back of his head who had stuck with him all the way back from his darker days. Once he sees his suit, he completely sinks into doubt and has an identity crisis about not being enough and not worthy of Spider-Man. As he finds out that he also is in ten thousand dollar debt, it gets even worse and his sinister little companion takes over. Peter attempts suicide and then there's a knock on the door.
> 
> **『Posted on January 31st of 2020』**


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